Cogs
by tempusborealis
Summary: Prelude to a domestic evening in the Bennet house. Shameless fluff.


**Pairing**: Noah/Sandra  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13 (T)  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: There'd be plenty of things that would be different if I owned _Heroes_, that's for sure.  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: None, really. There are oblique references to Kate Bennet, so you might want to know who she is.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Prelude to a domestic evening in the Bennet house. Shameless fluff.

* * *

><p>He chuckled as he watched Sandra putter around the kitchen nervously. Today was the first night in a week that he was home for dinner, and she was throwing a small dinner party. Recently he'd been at work a lot of extra time, missing meals and church and soccer games. Most evenings, he wanted nothing more than to take her by the hand and lead her to bed to spend an eternity with the wisps of her hair tickling his nose and inhaling her subtle, clear scent of damp stone and heather. If he was honest with himself, he knew it was beginning to wear on him just as much as it was on Sandra – when he came home, there was so often a tired relief in her forehead, in her eyes that pained him. But it was important work. An occasional, dull ache under the lapel of his blazer served to remind him of that loss and lesson all too well.<p>

But tonight was for Sandra. Entertaining was not the first activity he'd pick for an evening at home, but he'd known she was excited the minute he'd suggested she have her girlfriend from book club and her husband over. While he'd known that meeting to talk about the type of books middle-aged, Texan housewives read couldn't make up for his absence, he'd seen some flyers in the local library and mentioned it when he'd gotten home, much to her delight. She had been a voracious reader since he'd known her. She had been an art history major in college, but had doubled in literature – the shelves of their home library were lined with Dumas, Gogol, and Mickiewicz. It was a passion they shared, and one of the things that attracted Noah to her in the first place – she'd only been a waitress with a slightly worrying obsession for small dogs, but the glossy blonde locks and flirty eyes hid a great intelligence. True, the fare of her book group was not particularly… challenging… but he knew she thrived on social contact. It had been a running joke, that she would one day cure him of his lone-wolf syndrome. That day had yet to come. He had good reasons for being what must appear to others as reclusive, though they couldn't know and understand. He'd let most of his contacts from college and the period just after dissipate, dry up with disuse. None of them had known what to say anyway.

The tang of lemon and garlic coaxed his eyes into focusing on Sandra, fussing over the saucepan. He smiled and took a sip of water from the amber, cut-glass goblet; one of the nice ones only trotted out on special occasions. Tonight she was making shrimp over pasta, using a sauce recipe of her mother's. Jeanette, much like her daughter, had been a force with which to be reckoned, but also much like her daughter was a killer chef. His stomach growled its impatience, earning a grin from his wife.

"Did you have lunch?"

He looked at the granite countertop to avoid looking guilty, his eyes picking out patterns in the calico stone. He'd rallied extra hard this afternoon in order to come home in time. Luckily, it'd been a paperwork day; an ironic facet to a rather hands-on, dirty job.

"Hmm, I thought so," she _tsked_ teasingly. She busied herself with something on the stove, reaching over to grab an implement. When she turned around, she had a large, pink shrimp speared on a fork, cradled in her off-hand. He perked up as she walked over to him flirtatiously and held the shellfish up to him at about mouth level. She smirked as his gaze fixated on the morsel and she brought it up to her own face, making as if to eat it herself. A wicked grin spread across his features as he whipped off his glasses and gently but firmly grabbed her waist, guiding her body to fit the curves of his. Her hand swung away from her, suspended, waiting for further orders as his lips met hers in a bubbly kiss. He nuzzled her nose with his and his grin returned as he turned his head and snatched the shrimp from the fork still held loosely in her hand. Sandra managed to look only slightly outraged at how he'd out-foxed her, chewing with a stupid smirk on his face. He stood up straighter and bent briefly to peck her on the lips again as he walked away jauntily. She couldn't help the goofy grin fighting its way onto her mouth. The nerve.

She surveyed the table before her – it'd taken her all afternoon, but it had come together nicely. She had created a decent setting, despite the stain on her first choice of tablecloth, no matching napkins for her second, and Lyle dropping a glass when she'd had him get them down from the high cupboard over the refrigerator. The cloth she'd chosen in the end was a dark indigo, and the black set of napkins had matched surprisingly well. The honey-colored glasses and golden candlesticks she'd picked out added a warm touch around the dark ochre sunflowers she'd arranged in a glass bulb vase. Not her best work, but all in all it wasn't bad, not bad at all. But she was a homemaker, and making a good impression on guests, especially guests visiting for the first time, was important.

She sighed tiredly, but was content. Her fingertips were tingling with the nervous energy of a good hostess, but there was nothing left to do for now. She'd tasked the kids with cleaning up the living room, buttered with the promise of a few chocolate covered raspberries that were a component of the pudding dessert she'd prepared. A dark setting, especially this cold time of year, warranted a lighter fare, but she'd always secretly felt that dessert just wasn't dessert without chocolate. Pudding with berries of the forest seemed like a good compromise.

The shrimp were warming in their lemon-garlic sauce on the stove, the pasta was in its bowl, waiting to be tossed with the shrimp. The den looked clean, and she'd had Noah uncork a bottle of red and a bottle of white to breathe. A stray curl fell across her forehead and she blew it away, clapping her hands together as she checked off the last of things in her mental preparation checklist. Connie and her husband Tom would be here in twenty minutes, and Sandra had done everything she could until they were ready to eat. The kids were upstairs, as sullen teenagers were wont to do, and all was quiet. Mr. Muggles padded into the kitchen, scouting the floor for leftovers. Finding none, he came to her feet, his tail wagging with more vigor when he realized exactly whose feet he had stumbled upon. Forlornly, he gazed up at her, sitting at her feet expectantly. She bit her lip. She knew she shouldn't give him people food, but she had never been able to resist those little ebony marbles of love. Caving, she picked out a small shrimp from the saucepan and bit the end off. She placed it on the ground and smiled as Mr. Muggles skittered over the tile to gobble it up before she changed her mind.

With a chuckle she drifted into the den, the beige carpet tickling and warming her stockinged feet in contrast to the cool slide of the kitchen tile. Noah was sitting, reading the business section sedately, under the beam of light coming in from the window to his right. He sat completely still, the dust motes silently swirling in the shaft of light, curling around his body in serpentine patterns of microcurrents. Usually, if he was around, and he often wasn't these days, they would sit down together and attempt the Times crossword. They hadn't in quite a while.

She attempted to sneak up on him from behind the back of the freestanding sofa, but was interrupted by his warm baritone.

"Crossword?"

Damn. He'd know she was there the entire time. At times he could be so mysterious; she had been careful to make little noise. Apparently he had very good hearing when she was stealthing around behind his back, but when she asked him to put the recycling on the curb, he was positively deaf. With a smile, she sauntered over and slipped the arts section out from the pile of paper next to him. She darted over to the computer desk and snagged two pencils.

When she turned around, he was standing and placing the business section down. He rifled through the rest of the paper for the Arts section. Her eyes traveled down his frame, trailing along his strong shoulders where his black Oxford hung in attractive lines and curves. It slipped down a little farther, admiring the tight muscles flexing as he pulled his body upright. He chose that moment to turn around, catching where her eyes were lingering. A smirk slowly slid onto his lips and she moved toward him. Clutching the paper in one hand, he opened his arms and she tucked herself under his shoulder. She couldn't help the thud in her chest when he wrapped his arms around her, one going across the back of her shoulders, and the other pulling the small of her back as close to him as it could manage.

"I miss this," he mumbled unexpectedly into her hair.

"Then you should stop working so hard," she teased. "What could a paper company possibly need you for that eats up this much of your time?"

He pulled away, his mouth twitching. His eyes, hooded, roamed somewhere next to her shoulder. "You know, traveling to other branches, comparing notes, boring business and morale meetings, logistics…" She let her head fall to his chest.

"Mmm hmm" she hummed into his collarbone.

He slid his hand into hers, tugging her toward the couch. She acquiesced eagerly but slowly, taking her time with her lover. He let his bones spill across the forgettable floral upholstery, reaching a long arm across the back of the sofa. With a slight contented smile she sat down and swung her legs across his lap, and he lifted up his arm compliantly, wrapping it around her once she was settled. She took the paper from him and carefully folded it so that only the puzzle and its clues showed and twirled the pencil between her fingers as she read the first clue.

"_Fianna_," Noah murmured after a moment.

"Pardon?"

"Two down. '_Gaelic warriors of Man'_. The capital 'M' means the Isle of Man. The answer is_ fianna_, the name for bands of Gaelic warriors."

She considered the page before her. Sometimes she forgot just how intelligent her husband was. Sandra did not consider herself to be a dimwitted woman by any stretch of the imagination, but many times her talents lay in different places. When the clues about obscure literature or art history came up, it was her turn to shine. Unfortunately, he was much better at geography and history, and today's puzzle was entitled "Once More unto the Breach". Obviously the crossword's theme was war; the quote came from Shakespeare's _Henry V_, detailing the English victory over the French in the Battle of Agincourt. Damned if she knew when and where it had happened. There were bound to be literary references, but it was a Noah puzzle today. Oddly, she never cared when the crossword was one to which she would have little to contribute. Watching Noah's mind work was fascinating (she did have a psych minor, from college all those years ago), and at times It saddened her how little he must use it in his profession. They couldn't really complain – he made wonderful money (really too much money for a paper company man, but she couldn't look a gift-horse in the mouth) and she knew he was a valuable asset to the company, but after nearly twenty years of marriage she knew his intellect to be vast. Her mouth twitched a little bit in a mix of admiration and arousal.

"Smart-ass."

"You love me anyway."

"Yeah, how'd that happen?"

He chuckled as he pulled her shoulders to him, kissing her on the temple. She let her head drop to his shoulder and brushed his neck with her nose a few times before returning her attention back to the puzzle. Twelve across. _Ponmercy's fallen commander__. _Ah, a _Les Misérables_ reference. One, two… six, seven, eight; right, it fit. She began to pencil in the first letter, an 'L'. She smiled to herself a little as she caught a glimpse of the confusion on Noah's face.

"Victor Hugo. _Les Misérables_," she began. "Ponmercy is the surname of the main character Marius. He's a fictional persona who fought in the June Rebellion during one of the French revolutions under a General Lamarque, who died of cholera before the actual uprising took place."

He looked suitably impressed, and she saw hints of recognition in his eyes at the words "_Les Misérables_" and "Lamarque". Even when he didn't know the answer, he pieced it together disturbingly quickly. She pursed her lips coyly. "You didn't think I was just a pretty face, now did you?" He playfully nipped at her ear in response. Her head tilted toward his lips automatically, and she stretched out in his lap. As her neck tipped back to the arm of the sofa, she caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall and sat upright.

"Oh, dear, Connie should be here in five minutes. Would you go upstairs and corral the kids?"

He brushed his fingers across her silk-clad shoulder-blades, feeling the slubs of the rough-spun carmine jacket wrapped around her frame. "Of course," he replied as he scooped his arms under her legs and rotated her into a sitting position. Rising, he smiled back at her briefly before heading toward the staircase. She let her eyes unfocus for a few seconds, letting the warmth of affection wash over her and a soft smile come to her lips. After a moment she slapped her thighs and pushed off, standing and walking over to the low heels she'd left at the edge of the carpet earlier. Absentmindedly, she slipped her feet into the black pumps as she once again ran though everything that had to be ready for entertaining guests and serving dinner. Candles.

She spied the candlesticks she'd left out on the corner of the table as she rushed into the room. She turned to the breakfront parallel to the table and rummaged in the top drawer for the wax to hold them in their stands. Using only her thumb and forefinger, she unscrewed the sticky cap and dug out some of the opaque wax with the fat end of each tumescent candle. She carefully stuck the candles in their receptacles and put away the wax. Making her way to the kitchen, she swiped a hunter green towel off the rung of the black stove and quickly wiped off her fingers. She ran the back of her hand across her forehead as she heard a friendly knock at the front door. She inhaled deeply, ran a hand over her hair, and hastened to the door to allow her guests entrance.


End file.
